


bow in the presence of greatness

by wonthetrade



Series: that girl is a goddamn problem [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8094343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: Connor really likes post-workout sweaty Jack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you got here by googling yourself or someone you know, for the good of everyone's sanity, turn back now. Usual disclaimers definitely apply. 
> 
> WHERE ARE THE MCEICHEL SHIPPERS?! Sunday night's game was shipper heaven; we've got our eye on you now. Let's have some fic!

Connor doesn’t time it perfectly per se, but Jack is a creature of habit and that includes post workout showering. So maybe he’s just not as slow with their snack and maybe he does make a concerted effort to make it into the bedroom in time to see her shirt come over her head, but he’s not admitting to anything.

His girlfriend is smoking hot, is what he’s saying.

This post-workout version of her is one of his favourite versions of Jack. It makes him think of hockey and her play and it’s not exactly a secret that her hockey gets him going. Not after the last time they faced off across the dot in the regular season.

It’s a little helpless, the way he reaches for her, sliding his fingers down her sweaty side. Jack jumps a little, startled and looks back over her shoulder. There’s a sort of frozen beat before she slowly raises an eyebrow. Connor knows the challenge in it and lets himself look, lets himself be blatant about it. It’s their apartment, just the two of them, so he figures he’s entitled.

It’s also obvious she wants it.

“And if I’m too tired?” she asks, but it’s low and the tone doesn’t match ‘too tired’. Connor sets the snack on the dresser, and the Gatorades he’d grabbed to go with it.

“I’d call you a liar,” he answers and steps close, pressing his mouth to her shoulder. Jack likes the shower at home a whole lot and has a habit of merely rinsing at the gym, so she tastes just faintly of sweat. He can’t help the way he hums into her skin, because when it comes to this woman, even he can admit he’s easy to rile up.

“I need a real shower,” she says, but he feels the muscles move in her shoulder, darts his glance up to see her tilting her head, offering her neck. His hands slide over her hips and he tucks his fingers beneath her shorts.

“You’ll have to get naked for that anyway.”

She snorts, but he feels her hands knock against his, going for her shorts. His tighten reflexively and she stills until he looks at her. She smiles, this wide, predatory thing that he sees when she scores filthy goals or when she (routinely) squats with more weight than he does and Connor feels himself shiver.

“You angling for a show there, Davo?”

He isn’t. He really, really isn’t, but now that she’s mentioned it…

It’s not like Jack’s little exhibitionist streak is new. She loves showing off. It's a pretty solid part of her NHL personality.

“Go close the curtains in the living room, move the coffee table and sit on the couch,” she says, orders really and Connor rolls his eyes. He does it though, stopping briefly at the bedside table for a condom before he takes one of the Gatorades and leaves her to putter in the bedroom. There’s nothing different about her when she comes out with her iPod in hand. She hasn’t even put her shirt back on, not that Connor’s complaining about that. His stomach is going warm in arousal, and he pulls his shirt over his head.

“What if I wanted it on?” she asks, even as her eyes slide over his chest, his arms, his abs. Two seasons in the NHL have served him well and he knows he’s filled out. Not to mention Jack doesn’t make a secret of how much she likes looking at him too. He settles back into the cushions, cracks the lid of the Gatorade and offers her an echo of her own challenging eyebrow.

Jack’s responding smile is cocky and sure of herself, as it should be, if Connor’s opinion is relevant. He lets his eyes drag over her as she slides her phone on the shoved aside coffee table and hits play on whatever she’s decided is going to be the soundtrack for this. The beat is hard and driving, but it’s a song he actually knows, one that she’s played in the gym and plays sometimes around the apartment just because. Her hips start moving to the beat of the synthesizer, surprisingly sinuous for a woman whose grace is more an on ice thing than off.

He sets the Gatorade bottle down to watch the movement of her body, the way the muscles of her thighs bunch and the way her core muscles work. He wants to touch, wants to get up and pull her to him, get this show on the road, but it’s not his show and as much as he wants to reach for her and drag her close, watching the way she moves is something he’s always in for. He settles himself back against the couch, draping an arm out over the back like he hasn’t a care in the world. He knows Jack knows better, that she’s aware his laser focus is settled on her every movement. She gets off on it too; they’ve been together long enough that he knows as much as he’s easy for her, she’s easy for him too.

It makes him breathless, that she’s his - or he’s hers, he’s not picky about that - after all of the media circus and the drama and the _fight_.

“Are you even paying attention to me?”

He is, but he’s also not going to be upset about the way she climbs into his lap, hips still moving in little aborted thrusts. He reaches out because he can’t help himself and ghosts his fingers along her skin in a long, winding caress. She smiles as he does, preens under his gaze. He lets himself span a hand over her back, pushing just a little to tip her forward and kiss her sternum above her sports bra.

“I’m always paying attention to you.”

The way the flush creeps towards her breasts tells him how much she likes the compliment, even as she rolls her eyes. “You think you’re cute.”

His hands slide back down to her hips, over the curve of her ass, and he shifts, thrusts up into her with the beat. “You think I’m cute.”

He can see the way her attention shifts, her fingers gripping his shoulders. She meets every press of his hips with easy grace and Connor lets his hands slip under the waist of her shorts.

“Jack,” he murmurs, turns his head to kiss her forearm, even as he tugs at the elastic of her shorts. “Come on.”

“You come on. It’s my show.”

He doesn’t tell her it’s always her show; she knows that and has known it from the beginning. Connor likes it, really, even if he’s perpetually ahead of her where their relationship is concerned. So he releases her, tucking his thumbs under his own shorts and quirks his mouth in a smirk. She laughs, but slides off of his lap, takes her time pushing her shorts down. He’s not expecting her panties to go with them and feels his breath catch.

It’s her turn to look both smug and challenging, so sure of herself and fuck if that doesn’t get him going. “Your turn.”

He’s not graceful about shucking his shorts, nor about the way he kicks them and his boxers aside. He’s too busy watching her. It’s the only way he sees her breath catch tellingly, the hitch in her chest actually visible despite the bra she still wears.

“Tit for tat,” he murmurs, just over the beat of the music. The song will be over soon, he knows and he’s not sure she has another one queued up. He wants her back in his lap by then, less focused on the tease and more focused on the desperation with which they want each other.

(It’s still weird to be separated all season with only two games to really see each other and some snatched days off. His personal flights alone have earned him priority status and a lot of perks, just to spend twenty four hours with her in Anaheim or Montreal. It’s so worth it for both of them, but it’s nothing like this, where he gets her all summer. This is everything, snatched moments and months of sharing space. Months where she’s all his without the myriad of season-long obligations.)

He gets what he wants, her straddling his thighs, naked but for the bra and his hands on her, greedy now for every shift of her skin and press of her body. Jack resists, like she always does, like she has to fight him here too, but he coaxes her closer with his mouth on her skin, on the sweat that collects between her breasts when she doesn’t shower thoroughly after a workout. His fingers fiddle with the back of her bra with no real intent despite the smile on her face.

She leans in as the song peters out, nudging her mouth against his cheek, his forehead. When she ducks down, close enough to kiss, the smile is still there, softened now with the emotion he’s sure of, but she so rarely shows. “Gonna do something there, McDavid?”

He chuckles and brings one hand around to grip her chin, gentle, but demanding. “It’s your show.”

She preens under that, even as she lets him tilt her face for a real kiss. It’s only easy for a moment and then Jack’s biting at his mouth as much as she’s kissing him. Connor leans back, taking her with him as he wraps his arms more completely around her, content for the moment to just feel her, the movement of her hips against his, the slide of her getting slicker and slicker. He’s not immune either. He feels the way his cock gets harder with every shift of her mouth, the press of her tongue, and the movement of her body against his.

Finally she breaks away, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, reaching behind her to flick open the bra. It comes easily over her head and Connor takes advantage of the way she has to put her arms in the air to get his mouth on her breasts. Jack freezes when he does and he feels the miniscule tremors race through her, the shivers that wrack her body. She moans above him and he shifts his attention, hand coming up to cup her other breast. She arches into it, whether it’s because of how it makes her feel or whether it’s because it’s easier to toss the bra away Connor doesn’t know, and he certainly doesn’t care. He’s focused now, mouth flitting over her skin as his hands drop to her hips, her ass, her thighs.

They’re restless. He can’t hold himself still, uses his grip on her to direct each movement of their hips. Jack lets him, he knows it, because she wants it. She could stop him if she didn’t, could hold her hips away from him despite the strength in his arms. She’s too strong, her lower body too stacked and it makes Connor’s mouth water.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Jack whispers above him. “What the fuck did you do with that condom?”

Connor reaches for it, just a cushion away and Jack shifts away with a whimper.

“Hurry the fuck up.”

He tries not to grin as he tears the package open. He knows what it means when she swears like this, is sure if he were to slip his fingers between her thighs she’d be so, so slick. But she’s also not really great at waiting like this and he’s not exactly patient at the moment himself. The minute the condom is on, he’s reaching for her again, helping her line everything up. It’s a long, slow slide, her breath hitching every time she takes a little bit more of him. Honestly, Connor’s just trying to hold on, surrounded by Jack as he is, watching her face, the flush of her chest, feeling the way she grips at his hair, his shoulders, his neck.

“Fuck,” she breathes again when she’s pressed against him. Connor just breathes, burying his face in between her shoulder and breasts to keep himself from pushing up harder, pressing deeper, taking over, just to hear her groan and swear. “Okay.”

She moves then, a slow torturous glide off, thighs bunching in every way that drives him nuts. His hands are there, pressing and shifting, unable to stay still so he can feel the strength of her lower body as much as he can feel the heat of her around his cock. Her eyes are closed when he lifts his head, nudging her chin until she tilts her head enough that he can kiss her. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated with the way she’s riding him, hips grinding as she speeds up.

“Touch yourself,” he says finally, knows he’s too close in comparison and wants her there with him. “Come on.”

“You touch me,” she pants back. “I’m doing all the work.”

“I know.” He squeezes her thighs for emphasis, runs his hands gently up her hamstrings. The sound of her amusement is breathy, but she does slide a hand between them. Connor can feel her fingers low against his stomach every time she takes him in, shifting, moving. He knows what it looks like thanks to more than a few memorable editions of Skype sex, and closes his eyes against the image.

“No,” she says. “Hey.”

He opens them again and tips his head against the back of the couch. Her eyes are open too, that compelling blue he can’t resist and his hands tighten on her thighs. “You can’t- I can’t-”

“Then come.”

It takes a few more thrusts before he does, releasing a low moan and feeling his body go taut. She does this to him, leaves him a mess, almost literally and metaphorically. She’s not moving on him when he can finally breathe again, holding herself bow-string still.

“You didn’t-” She whimpers. He growls. “Jack.”

“I-” She moves then, shifts and it’s almost too much, it really is, but this is Jack and-

He takes her hips in his hands, yanks probably harder than he should, but as her fingers press against his stomach, and therefore her clit, Jack cries out. He has to close his eyes against it, even if he wishes he could watch. He’s already wrapping his arms around her as she collapses into him, hard and tight the way she likes when she’s broken apart like this.

It’s a few beats before she starts to shake, worn out after the workout and the sex. “Holy shit, McDavid,” she manages, though he feels her swallow.

“Wasn’t sure you had it in you,” he teases, presses butterfly kisses against her jaw and neck. She just hums, pleased as punch before she essentially dumps herself onto the couch beside him.

“Snacks.”

“In the bedroom.”

She smacks at him, his cue to go get them and he laughs as he dodges her hands. “My legs won’t work either!”

She bites her lip, eyes heated. She gets like this sometimes, not always after a good orgasm, where she’s almost shy about the ways she gets under his skin and leaves him weak. He can’t help leaning over, to kiss her again, a little more languid now.

She lets him take his fill, waits until he’s nuzzling his nose against her cheek to say, “Snack then shower, then maybe we can cuddle. We’re gross.”

He buries his head in her shoulder and chuckles. “So romantic.”

“Says the man who jumped me half sweaty after a workout.”

He doesn’t bother to correct her, just slides his hands over her thighs again. “Not my fault.”

“Jesus. Leg day really gets you going, huh?”

He doesn’t have to answer; she already knows. “You’re strong. I like it.”

“You like me.” But she’s blushing as she says it and Connor knows he’s got her.

“I love you,” he retorts, light and without weight, but Jack smiles like it’s there anyway, this little thing he only gets here, closed up together.

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more, follow us on [Tumblr](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com) where we scream hockey and- no pretty much hockey.


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